


And They'll Hold Hands Like They're Jumping Off A Bridge

by HelloDoctorMorphine



Series: Pop Punk Kids AU [3]
Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Closeted Relationship, High School, M/M, Midtown!Gabe, also look who researched Chicago scene bands for the purpose of seeming like I know what I'm doing, more pop punk kids AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2458028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloDoctorMorphine/pseuds/HelloDoctorMorphine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forget-Short-Ending, as Joe has dubbed the band, has been given permission to use the band room after school now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And They'll Hold Hands Like They're Jumping Off A Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> Who knew such an unlikely AU would take over my life.  
> So, first of all: I would adore writing prompts for this series. If you want to give me a prompt, message me on my tumblr, cartoonsaboutjoey.tumblr.com (cartoonsaboutjoey). Second, I just want to express my gratitude that people actually read my work; seeing kudos, comments, and bookmarks honestly makes my week, much less day.   
> Underage warning for consensual relationship between a legal adult and a minor, no beta so I apologize for mistakes. Hopefully, my newly-learned html coding will work, too. Title from Swan Dive by Man Overboard. Enjoy.

Forget-Short-Ending, as Joe has dubbed the band, has been given permission to use the band room after school now. 

The principal seemed to be reluctant about letting two adults in to use their rooms and equipment, but after Pete batted his eyelashes a little, he gave them the key to the room.

Andy still thinks that Pete did more than bat his eyelashes, but Pete always grins and says, “a lady never tells her secrets.”

Besides the Mrs.-Stump-still-thinks-Pete-came-from-Satan’s-asshole problem, Mrs. Wentz found the pockmarks in the wall from where Patrick, Pete, Joe, and Andy had been throwing darts, haphazardly covered with a bedsheet and a couch. 

An hour later, the entire drumkit, all the guitars, the bass, and all of their amps were lined up on the Wentz’s sidewalk, accumulating a light dusting of January snow, and Mrs. Wentz was handing Pete a caulking gun, a few paint rollers, and a bucket of Kilz, telling him to “fix the problem yourself, you caused it!”

That first day that they use the band rooms, Pete sticks his head in the practice hall, breathes deeply, and gags, choking out, “still smells like old semen in there, goddammit.”

Patrick doesn’t know whether to snigger or facepalm. He tries to do both; it ends up being an awkward and fumbling action, causing Joe to laugh at him. 

What a fucking asshole.

 

Patrick and Pete have a system now.

It’s a system where they have two sleeping bags stashed in a corner of the treehouse in the Wentz’s backyard. It’s more of a platform with a tarp hung over it as a roof than anything, but every night - every other night, sometimes - Patrick creeps out of the house, runs through the neighborhood, goes through the Wentz’s side gate, and meets Pete in it.

The sleeping bags and each other’s company helps, but they still shiver for the few hours that they spend together.

Patrick has slowly growing purple-blue bruises under his eyes, it’s become harder to pay attention in class, and Mrs. Stump is starting to worry about how her son can’t seem to stay coherent during the day. He considers trying to limit these meetings to the weekend, so he could at least sleep more, and then Pete’s hand falls in his, and his brain - _stupid, sixteen-year-old brain_ \- justifies the action.

“We should get a show. As a band,” Pete says, absently, as he scoots down and rests his forehead against Patrick’s collarbone, ear pressed to his breastbone to hear his heart beating.

Patrick reaches his fingers under Pete’s beanie, thumb slipping over the Neck Deep logo, to stroke his hair. “We’re nowhere near good enough. We don’t even have a name.”

Pete scoffs, shaking his head. “We’ll be fine. Besides, I have a friend who just started a band and he wants us to open for them?”

Patrick blinks. “Wait. What?”

“Yeah. The slot’s still open, if you want. Show’s in six or seven weeks,” Pete murmurs. He pulls Patrick’s hand out of his hat, matching the pads of their thumb together, then the rest of their fingers. Patrick’s hands are slightly smaller, and he has to widen the webbing between his fingers a little more to meet Pete’s fingers. 

“Your mom’s eventually gonna figure out that you’re still seeing me, isn’t she?” Pete whispers, looking up at Patrick, brown eyes wide with fear.

Patrick shrugs, biting his lip and lowering his eyes. ‘I hope not, but… Yeah, probably,” he admits.

Pete removes his hand from its place, lined up with Patrick’s, to wrap both arms around Patrick’s waist. He faces Patrick’s chest, nose poking between his ribs, breath searing through Patrick’s jacket.

“Can’t lose you again,” Pete whispers, “can’t lose more of you.”

Patrick nods, and wraps his arms around Pete’s shoulders, bends over to press his forehead to the other boy’s. It’s his own way of saying _I know. I love you._

 

At one point, even Andy’s boss at his coffee shop - a sweet old lady in her mid fifties - says, “why are you four so obsessed about leaving Glenview, anyways? It’s not like it’s a bad place.”

Pete and Joe are particularly overzealous in the death glares that all four boys give her.

Pete, later, haplessly stirs more hazelnut creamer into his coffee, turning it a light caramel color. “We’re the only ones who want to leave because we’re the only ones who realize that we’ve been _lied_ to this whole time,” Pete hisses.

Everyone else just nods assent. Patrick wonders how Pete became the ringleader of their pathetic little bunch.

 

Patrick’s doing his homework.

This semester has sucked, and it has sucked royally. Mostly because Pete isn’t there to hang around, fixing the wording in his papers but never the grammar, lending help on the one or two things he remembered from math class. For all of his college-dropout-ness and incessant need to kiss Patrick because “you’re cute when you’re concentrated”, Pete could actually be useful.

Y’know. Sometimes. 

His phone rings. He perks up, checking the number. He’s just as disappointed about it not being Pete as he is surprised that it’s his brother.

He picks up, answering with a “hey, Kevin, what’s up?”

“Hey, Kid! What’s up?” Kevin’s voice perks up, over the chill of the line. 

“Not much,” Patrick sighs, “just… Y’know… Doing homework?”

“Awesome. Hey, I need to tell you something.”

Patrick freezes. He clicks his pen shut, twirls it in his hands like a drumstick. “Yeah? What do I need to know?”

Kevin sucks in a breath from across the line. “Okay. So Mom and Dad told Megan told me who’s now telling you that your entire nuclear family knows that you’re dating Pete Wentz from two houses down across the street?”

Patrick swallows. _Oh, fuck._

“Um… Okay?” Patrick asks.

“Wait, so that’s not true? Has Mom finally snapped from all those years of CPA work?” Kevin asks, with a sick kind of near-elation. 

“No, no, Mom’s still… Well, mostly sane,” Patrick remedies. 

“Wait, so you are dating Pete?” Patrick doesn’t answer back soon enough, and Kevin gasps loudly. “Holy shit.”

“You’re an asshole,” Patrick rebutts, poorly and falling on almost-deaf ears. 

“Oh my god, my baby brother’s dating a dude five years older than him, who he didn’t even grow up with, hardly, who _dropped out of college_ -”

“Kevin-”

“Patrick, Pete’s nasty! Like, if you were going to be the one gay dude - or bi, whatever - why the hell would you be the one gay Stump with Pete Fucking Wentz?”

“He’s my best friend. He’s a decent guy, once you get to know him, and he understands me.”

“...Pete Wentz. Your best friend.”

“He needed someone after he came back from college. We got surprisingly close-”

“Christ on a _bike,_ Patrick, I can tell that!” Kevin grumbles, “damn right you got close. You’re not fucking him, are you?”

“Why would I tell-”

“Nevermind, I don’t want the answer to that.” Kevin takes a shaky breath. “Okay, my worst fears are confirmed. Just don’t get an STD from him or some shit.”

“Thanks. I’ll try,” Patrick deadpans. “I need to work.”

“Okay, yeah, so do I,” Kevin consoles. “Just… Okay, Megan’s probably gonna call later, too, just as a warning. She might be a little more on about how you figured out you were attracted to Pete Wentz - which, by the way, he’s still gross as all fuck-”

“Point made, fucker.”

“-But yeah. Oh, also, her roommate and my girlfriend know, too. Sorry, buddy.”

The line goes dead. 

Patrick has that specific bubble around his ears, the one that forms right after one leaves a concert, into the silence, but the ringing hasn’t formed yet. The bubble that’s almost like this desperate silence, begging to be noticed.

 

Forget-Short-Ending has their first show opening for a barely older and barely less shitty band called The Honor System. They’re a little more classic-punk-rock-sounding and a lot of their fans have been dragged out to this show from shows in the hardcore scene, with Xed-up hands and camo shorts and some questionably stained fidel caps. 

Their setlist is no longer than exactly four songs, with the extra 5 or so minutes left for Pete to mindlessly entertain the audience with bad jokes and yelling. Patrick has taken to referring to the setlist as “the greatest piece of improvised bullshit ever”. 

Hey, it’s not like it’s not an accurate name.

They start out with Honorable Mention; Pete forgets to play the bass three times over the course of the song, Joe misses a note once or twice, and the amount of times Patrick hits a wrong note is a simply obscene number.

There’s maybe ten people who’ve gotten into it, moshing because they probably don’t have anything better to do. By the time they get into Switchblades and Infidelity, they’ve lost heart just a little bit. 

Between that and Growing Up, Pete starts yelling, “okay, so currently, we’re so shitty that we don’t even have a name. Currently, we’re between-”

“Short Story, Forget Me Not, and Unhappy Ending,” Patrick supplies. A few people groan their disapproval, and Patrick looks at them, shrugging. “Yeah, I know.”

From the back, the one drunk guy who actually, seemingly, _knew_ that this wasn’t a hardcore show, yells, “no, fuck that! Fuck all those names!”

Pete laughs. “I know, right! It’s so shitty!”

Dude From The Bar shakes his head. “No, fuck that! You’re Fallout Boy, that’s your name now!”

Patrick and Pete exchange looks, glance back at Andy and Joe. 

The four boys share an awkward shrug, and Pete says, “okay, yeah, fuck it, that’s our name now!”

They finish with Calm Before The Storm, and they actually don’t do half bad.

The minute they get all their shit off the stage and back into Joe’s mom’s minivan, Pete whips his phone out, and says, “okay, I’m googling this, where the hell did he get that name from?”

Patrick looks over his shoulder as they walk back into the venue to watch The Honor System play. “Wha- Oh, Fallout Boy.”

“So, he’s this really obscure character from the Simpsons,” Pete says, “he’s Radioactive Man’s sidekick. Y’know, whoever that is.”

Patrick nods. “Cool?”

The two of them find themselves in the wings, just as the PA system stops playing, the lights darken, and The Honor System jumps on stage. 

They play some loud, fast one-minute-thirty-seconds of a song, and as the kids stop moshing, their lead singer says, “hey, can I have someone give it up for Fallout Boy?”

The ten or so people who started moshing cheer. Somewhere, Patrick can hear Dude From The Bar yell, “damn fuckin’ _right_ they’re Fallout Boy!”

Pete frowns. “We need to split up the word “fallout,” he says.

Patrick looks up at him. “What?”

“That’s our name now, right? We need to stylize it a little. So let’s split up the word Fallout. Like, instead of Fallout Boy, we’re Fall Out Boy.”

Pete enunciates each word as clearly as he can, even jutting his chin out a little bit. _Fahl. Aouht. Boey._

Patrick shrugs, wraps his arms around Pete’s middle. “I like it.”

Pete grins, satisfied. 

 

The next night, Megan makes her fateful phone call.

“So, Pete Wentz,” she laughs, as Patrick picks the phone up and answers.

Patrick pauses. “I’m hanging up now.”

“No, no, Patrick, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” Megan says, grimacing through the speakers of the phone. “I just meant… Like… Please don’t tell me this is a really elaborate prank, because I actually think he’s a decent person and mom’s being really irrational if what I’ve heard is true. Y’know, like, with her monitoring your texts and shit.”

“...Oh.”

“I’m sorry that came out wrong, Rickster,” she sighs through the phone. “Like. Kevin is actually okay with him, too, just so you know. He just thinks Pete doesn’t use shampoo in the shower and drinks too many fucking energy drinks. But you probably know both of those things.”

“Actually, between Andy and I, we’ve rehabilitated him. He’s a normal, properly showering human being.”

“Like, Andy Hurley?”

“Yeah, why?”

“...When the hell did you become friends with him? He’s closer to Kevin’s and my age than yours.”

“He offered to play drums in our band, he let’s me hang out with him at his work, he’s actually an intelligent person? That equates to friendship, right?”

“Point.” Megan sighs, breath traveling through the line. “Hey, I wanted to tell you something.”

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“Mom’s not gonna press statutory rape charges on Pete. Mostly because she still wants to be friends with Mrs. Wentz, but either way, that’s not gonna happen. She’s just not telling you that because she thinks you’ll take that as an excuse to see him again.”

Patrick’s shoulders suddenly release themselves of a tension he wasn’t aware was still even there. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Which, by the way, stop meeting him in the middle of the night, I can hear the exhaustion in your voice.”

“Megan?”

“I love you, Patrick. Goodnight.”

The line clicks shut, and Patrick’s left paranoid as all hell, wondering how much, exactly, do his older brother and sister _know._

 

William whistles. “So you got caught?”

Patrick shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, I still see Pete, we still have band practice, but it’s not like he’s allowed in my house for dinner, y’know?” Patrick looks around. “Hey, where’s Gabe?”

William shrugs. “I came alone. Gabe’s back in Jersey.”

Patrick nods. “Ah. How’s his band?”

William laughs. “Just as well as mine is? Y’know. Struggling. At least somewhat popular.” He sighs, leans his head against Patrick’s as he leans back against the bar. “Dating sucks.”

Patrick shrugs. “At least the sex is decent,” he murmurs, almost too quiet to hear. 

William still hears it, and breaks out laughing, head falling down to Patrick’s shoulder as he topples over.

“ _That,_ ” William starts, “was the last thing I would have expected you to say.”

“What did you expect me to say?”

William shrugs, still laughing. “I dunno, anything but something about sex?”

Patrick flips William off, laughing. “All my friends are shit.”

“We try.”

Patrick nudges William. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“Does your mom know about Gabe?”

William holds out his hand and shakes it, a so-so kind of motion. “She knows a little bit. She knows that I maybe did, maybe didn’t have sex with some dude from Jersey who I ended up hanging out with for a week, and then he went back to the East Coast to never be seen again.” William laughs, bitterly. “She would charge, but she has no idea who Gabe is. If she knew that I saw him every month or so, that I’ve been perpetuating this long-distance relationship for almost a year now? She’d kill me.”

“What about Gabe’s parents?”

William grins. “I met his dad once. I went to Jersey with Gabe while my mom was gone on a business trip. His mom’s… I don’t know where she is, but fuck her. I dunno.”

Patrick nods, sipping his Coke. “Alright. Just curious.”

“What about Pete’s parents?”

Patrick grimaces, finishing his sip. “They’re the ones who caught us. Poor Mrs. Wentz probably thinks I’m some kind of psychotic, underaged nymphomaniac. I feel bad.”

William full on _guffaws,_ eyes bugging. “Ickle baby Patrick Stump: nympho?”

Patrick’s about to clarify his answer, when Joe comes back from the bathroom.

Joe raises a thick, dark eyebrow. “What are you two laughing about?”

Patrick waves a hand as William keeps laughing. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Patrick says.

Joe rolls his eyes, muttering something about _fucking assholes_ and _what is this, the dudes having sex with older men club_ and giving them the side-eye.

Patrick gives Joe a winning smile, and turns to the stage as the lights darken and the next band comes on.

 

When Patrick answers the door on a crisp, late January afternoon, he’s honestly not expecting to see his boyfriend standing on the other side of it.

Patrick’s eyes widen in surprise, and he looks over his shoulder to see if his mom’s there. “Pete, what are you doing, you know-”

“Patrick, I want to talk to your mom,” Pete blurts out, and then Patrick realizes that he’s _nervous._ He’s wringing his hands into the hem of his hoodie - _again, with the hoodie and no jacket in the middle of winter_ \- biting his lip, eyes darting around like a fly.

“Pete, she’ll kill you-”

“I don’t care,” Pete says, “at this point, it’s either getting you back or going to jail.”

“Patrick, who’s there?” Mrs. Stump asks, walking out from the kitchen.

“Oh, Mom, it’s okay-” Patrick starts, but then Mrs. Stump is in the entryway, meeting eyes with Pete. Pete’s spine goes rigid with fear just as Mrs. Stump’s goes rigid with anger.

“Peter, what are you doing here? I thought I made it clear with you and your mother that you were not allowed here. You’re also aware that you’re not allowed to see Patrick-”

“Mrs. Stump, I just want to talk to you,” Pete says, swallowing.

Mrs. Stump looks down, trying to control her anger, when she nods. 

“Come in, you’re going to die from the cold,” she reasons, more with herself than with Pete. 

Patrick widens the door, steps aside so Pete can walk in. They share an understanding gaze; when Mrs. Stump rounds the corner into the kitchen, Pete leans over to kiss Patrick’s forehead.

“I’ve got this,” Pete whispers, and then tiptoes into the Stump’s kitchen. 

Patrick trails after Pete, licking his lips and shoving his hands in his pockets to keep him from fidgeting. 

“Hey, so do you wanna talk to my mom alone-” Patrick starts, until he gets cut off by his mother.

“Patrick, you will sit with us. I’m expecting answers from you, too,” Mrs. Stump declares, firm.

Patrick jumps up, nervous, but sits down at the kitchen table. Pete hesitates, before sitting next to Patrick. He reaches his hand over into Patrick’s lap so Patrick can take it in his.

Mrs. Stump sits down across from the two of them, and starts rubbing the bridge of her nose. 

“Okay,” she starts, “Peter, what do you want?”

“Do I have to want anything specific?”

“Peter Wentz-”

“I want to at least be acknowledged as Patrick’s friend again.”

She narrows her eyes, and then turns to Patrick. “What’s your relationship with Pete?”

“Friendly,” Patrick shrugs.

“Patrick, do you have to be this difficult?”

“Romantic?” Patrick shrugs, barely getting the word out as he slowly sinks into his seat.

Mrs. Stump purses her lips. “Okay. Well. That proves I’ve been in denial for about a month now.”

Pete grimaces. “Sorry, ma’am.”

Mrs. Stump looks like she’s barely trying to keep in a scowl. She limits it to a glare, before closing her eyes and holding her hands out. 

“How long have you been together?” She asks, before calming down a small bit. 

“Two, three months?” Patrick says, looking to Pete to verify. He nods his confirmation. 

But Mrs. Stump’s eyes widen, blue rings just starting to light with a subdued kind of rage. 

“You tried having sex with my _son_ after two months?”

Pete’s at a loss of words; both boys turn a particularly violent shade of red, but Pete’s jaw hangs open, panicked.

Mrs. Stump then, does, as a matter of fact, scowl, then turns to Patrick. “Seriously? _Him?_ ”

Patrick stares at the floor next to him, sneer matching his mother. “Did Kevin and Megan tell you to say that?”

Mrs. Stump sighs. “No, we just all share the same sentiments about the young man sitting next to you.”

Pete’s head whips around to stare at Patrick. “Wait, what do Kevin and Megan think about me?”

“Megan actually doesn’t think you’re half bad,” Patrick muses. Pete’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates.

“What they said doesn’t matter!” Mrs. Stump insists. 

“Um, Mrs. Stump, can I ask you something?” Pete inquires, nervous, eyes still wide from the Megan comment. 

Mrs. Stump rubs her forehead; she looks like she’s going to start ripping her hair out at any moment. “Yes, Peter?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but we both want Patrick to be happy, right? So shouldn’t we be asking what he wants?”

Patrick’s heart could jump out of his chest, and he’s struggling to keep his emotions in.

Mrs. Stump looks at her son, eyebrows knit. “Patrick, what _do_ you want?”

Patrick takes a deep breath, and opens his mouth.

 

The Wentz’s roof is frozen cold, but Patrick and Pete are sat on it anyways, staring up at the few stars they can see from the light pollution. 

“I can’t believe that fucking worked,” Patrick mumbles, tucking his head and shoulders under Pete’s arm.

Pete laughs, curls a hand around the back of Patrick’s neck, thumbing at the chilled skin. “I shouldn’t even tell you this, but I learned that trick in a negotiation class I took back at DePaul.”

Pete looks up at Patrick, eyes wide. “You’re shitting me.”

Pete shakes his head, barely able to keep his smile in check. “Find a common point whose preservation is wanted by both parties, and work from there; you negotiate in favor of the common point, and the parties follow.”

“You’re treating me like a commodity of negotiation. How dare you.”

Pete grins. “You love me. At least, I love you.”

Patrick nods. “I love you, too.”

They lace their fingers, stare at the dirty, ink-blue-yellow-tainted sky.

“Hey, Patrick?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sick of all the bullshit we put up with here.”

“Is that news?” Patrick asks. He edges Pete’s sleeve up so he can trace the bold, black lines of Pete’s tattoos. 

“I… Okay, fair point. I just… I just don’t know how much of it I can take.”

Patrick solemnly nods agreement.

“I think we’re all just reaching our breaking point,” he mumbles, into the only darkness suburbia can offer.


End file.
